Hellbound
by Oran T
Summary: Humanity is at the precipice of chaos. Violence, corruption, hatred, greed, and sin have grown out of check for the people of Tamriel, and has caught the eye of one particular Daedric Prince, who means to cleanse the mortal world of any imperfection that is deemed ungodly. Who can stop this force of destruction as it makes its way into the mortal realm of man? Better yet,who won't?
1. Prologue

"The sun is waning," Enman noted, reining his courser to a slow trot. "And our game has outrun us for the third time."

"I've never known you to give up so easily, brother," Geldall scolded playfully, pushing the salt-and-pepper hair out of his eyes. "We've had worse hunts."

The younger brother watched the shadows of the trees grow around them; great, thick-armed oaks that wilted over the lip of grey rock they had been treading for some time. "Yes, but we were much younger then, with a lot less to lose."

"What do you think, Marcus?"

The question did not come at a surprise for the young legionary captain. More oft than not the Crown-Prince had taken time out of the journey to speak with him. _A common courtesy his father must have taught him,_ he thought, watching Geldall slow his horse to match pace with his own. _Any good ruler would make sure all of his followers are well noticed and appreciated_. "I do not have a say either way, My Prince," he said.

"Ah, come now Marcus! Do not be polite in the eyes of your Prince! Have courage! You must have a thought one way or another!" Geldall laughed. The old lines of his face creased naturally to his bright smile, and the twilit sun flashed over his aquamarine eyes.

They had been at it since the crack of dawn, when the rosy fingers of the sun crawled over the snow-capped and ragged peaks of the Valus Mountains. So it had been a long ride for the young legionnaire, who was dressed full in his cloud-gray platemail and spaded greathelm. "The day has been hard on me, My Prince," he admitted softly.

"Ah yes, I see, I see," Geldall said in that always-playful tone. He was a man with a boy's soul. "Why not hunt with us? Take off that armor and we'll give you a proper horse. A destrier is no good suit for the wilderness." He glanced down at the silver longsword hanging at Marcus' waist. His eyes then flicked to the darksteel buckler strapped to his other arm, and he smiled. "We'll also give you more appropriate weapons. A longsword will get you tangled in the low branches here."

"If it please you, My Prince," Marcus said ruefully, immediately wishing he had refused him.

"Of course it would please me! Come, come." He called for the Legionary forrester captain, Perrin Quinton. The seasoned hunter cantered forward on his paint-horse. Closely following behind was the royal clothier, Rayond Drismond, riding a horse that lugged a grotesque, heart-shaped wardrobe squeaking on wooden wheels. Both dismounted as Geldall reached over to hold the reins of Marcus' destrier. "Go on," The Crown-Prince urged. "I'll walk her back to the rest of your legionnaires."

Marcus slowly slid off his horse, and immediately Perrin started to undress him without a word. The Legion Forrester was tired as well, he saw. The events of the day dragged his aged face down in a glum frown. His sullen eyes were like coals; no light touched them.

First came his cuirass, which was unfastened using the two black-leather buckles on it's sides. It was pried off his chest with a firm _clank_. Then came his gauntlets, two layered steel gloves that were thickly padded underneath for the comfort of his hands. Then they wrestled his pauldrons off, which apparently were so heavy that both Rayond and Perrin had to work together to unfasten them, one at a time.

The Crown-Prince had returned by the time they started to remove the young captain's helm. He passed the pile of scrap Marcus' armor had been thrown into, and made a face. "I cannot imagine wearing this for more than an hour. How old are you, Marcus?"

"A month yet until twenty, My Prince."

"That young?" Geldall laughed. "Ah Divines, I wish I were that young again. It truly is a struggle to find something lively to do at fifty-six." He watched as his clothier and forrester finally pulled off Marcus' spaded helm. "Such long hair, my friend! And it looks almost silver… tell me, Marcus, do you have nordic blood in you?"

They pulled the chainmail haubergeon over his head and through his arms. It slunk to the ground with a sheer metallic sound. He thanked the merciful breeze twilight brought, now standing shirtless. Sweat glossed over his pale skin, running like oil over the contour of his muscles.

"That I do, My Prince." It was his mother's side, to be exact. He did not know much about her, other than what his father had said, long ago. "A true northern beauty." He still remembered the raspiness in his father's voice as if he told him yesterday. He had sad, twinkling eyes whenever he talked about mother. "With great blonde hair and a young, lively face."

"You must be strong, carrying all of that weight on your shoulders for so long," Geldall admired.

"Strong," Marcus admitted with a tilt of his head, "but short." He reached out his arm; a stubbly, stocky piece of flesh that bore no scars yet. "It makes me at a loss against long-reaching weapons, My Prince."

The Crown-Prince looked amused. "Humble as well. It seems my Councilmen have appointed a fine young man as legionary captain. I am looking forward to many years ahead with you at the head of the Imperial City Guard."

"Many thanks, My Prince."

They had donned a loose collared shirt over his chest by now. The wind picked up, weaving through its thin cloth and tickling him. It felt nice to be without armor.

They dressed him in an olive-green wool cloak that was pinned around his neck, two leather bracers coiled around each wrist, and a small leather doublet that he wore over his loose shirt. For comfortable riding, they gave him a choice: Soft, black leather pants, or doeskin breeches. He chose the latter.

Somewhere off in the wood a dog barked. _No, not one,_ Marcus corrected, _several_. The heavy snap of their jaws and witch-like yelps grew closer, and Geldall had reined his horse forward to welcome the other hunting party.

They were four who had chosen to ride ahead to see if they could catch the hart for themselves. Marcus knew all four riders. There came Sir Hardwyn Hill, a Knight of the Thorn, at the front, his bald head as pristine as a still lake, with a longbow nearly as tall as he was slung across his back, and then behind him Ordin Indarys, Count Cheydinhal's younger brother, with his hair of golden fire and skin of sea blue, and behind him Lord Agryn, a Breton noble who looked fatter than his horse was long, and there, riding on his checkered mare, the Imperial court wizard Nevacen, who looked uncomfortable, his nervous eyes darting around violently.

The three high-born swayed on their horses, laughing drunkenly. Five hounds flanked them, two on one side and three on the other. When Geldall reached them, one dog in particular, a foxhound with a coat of pearl-white fur, leaped forward to muzzle his nose affectionately against the Crown-Prince's outreaching hand.

"We've found him, thanks to the hounds," Ordin hiccuped. "Great beast doesn't know we're here either!" He laughed merrily.

"You shoulda seen it, Geldall," the fat lord said, glazed chins shaking like jello cake, "right when we were about to turn back, your hound picked up his scent! It was as if the Divines gave us blessing for this hunt!"

Geldall laughed, but Marcus could tell this one was a bit forced. "Excellent! Let us ride then. Are you coming, brother?"

Enman had been silently striding along with his courser. There was a cold, unspeakable contempt in his eyes now, where before they looked half-bored, almost half-tired. The muscles on his face did not give way to any emotion when he said, "Yes, I think I shall."

And so they rode.

There were eight of them in total, riding in rows of two. Geldall had personally asked for Marcus to ride up front with him, where they could quietly whisper and let the wind whirl above their heads, carrying their words away in the night.

The sky was a black carpet now, emblazoned with diamonds that winked down through the trees. Dappled shadows ran over Geldall's riding jerkin of sable. Two crescent moons rose from the east. Pools of their light shimmered in patches on the forest floor. Every now and then the Crown-Prince would trot over one, and it would outline him in an elegant halo, painting his skin and cloak alike with divine fingers.

"How much further?" Enman asked when the trees fell silent over them. Marcus heard a small quiver in his voice.

"Shouldn't be too long now, my princes," Lord Agryn drunkenly assured, swaying from his horse.

"I do not like the night," Enman confessed, covering his chest with his fur cloak. "I cannot see anything."

"We have been blessed by two crescent moons, brother," Geldall pointed out. "Father has always said that the two crescents make up for more light than a half moon come the days of Last Hearth."

Enman seemed to ignore his older brother. "I wish Edel were here. His young eyes could prove to be useful. He was the best hunter of all three of us."

Geldall looked a bit irritated now, like a boy who hadn't gotten his way. The comment from his brother seemed to have wounded him. "We have young eyes," he said, somewhat icily. He turned to the young Imperial captain. "What do you see, Marcus?"

 _Darkness_ was the guess in his mind. But he was smarter than to insult the Emperor's first-born son in such a way. "Pray me a good chance to look, My Prince." He dismounted, taking Geldall's silent nod as affirmation, cloak billowing behind him like a ghost.

A cold chill swayed the trees. Somewhere, off in the distance, something gave out a deep shriek.

"What was that?" Enman asked. This time, his voice had a sudden steadfastness to it that almost made Marcus jerk around.

" _Quiet_ ," Geldall quipped. "Marcus," he called out again, several feet behind, hoping the darkness had not taken the Imperial Captain. "What do you see?"

"Nothing." It was plain and simple. Beyond the several feet of fallen leaves and twisting trees, only shadow lingered. Like perverse monsters, it danced ominously against his eyes, making it hard for him to discern his imagination from stark reality.

Again, deep into the forest, there was a deep cry.

This one was not like its sister's. This one was threaded with pain, whereas the one previous was defensive.

"That is no natural sound," Sir Hardwyn said, seemingly sobered now that the cry blew through him. He pulled out his longbow warily.

Even the dogs seemed put off. Two of them started to whimper as they circled around the knight's horse. Only Geldall's hound looked unafraid as it sniffed curiously around, padding as far out as Marcus was standing.

The captain felt suddenly naked without his armor, standing a good ways in front of the others. He reached for the short sword at his belt. It blinked ready.

They waited for what felt like hours. Silence crept around them.

And then there it was. A dark figure, bounding between the trees. Leaves crunched, and the wind whistled a high tune. Geldall's foxhound growled threateningly.

"Could it be the hart?" Ordil suggested. There was a strong quiver in his voice.

"Most likely," Perrin said from behind. His horse trotted forward. "It seems like it has been wounded, however."

"Well let's go and get to it before we lose it!" Geldall said, reining his horse forward.

" _Careful,_ My Prince!" The old forrester cantered his courser to block Geldall's from speeding past. "We don't know what attacked it. It could be dangerous…"

The Crown-Prince laughed. "Oh, what are we, women? We are letting the night play tricks on our eyes! Come, let us go chase this hart and claim our reward! We cannot linger out here all night! I have guests expecting me in the morrow!"

Before anyone could argue, the foxhound lunged forward, barking loudly.

"See! Winter has the right idea!" Geldall said as he dug his heels into his horse, spinning away into the dark.

Immediately Perrin, Enman, and Nevacen, the court wizard, galloped after him. Shouts of "My Prince! Wait!" echoed through the forest now, loud as church bells. The other three looked confused, deciding whether or not to ride forth. _Night's spell has paralyzed them_ , Marcus thought, saddling his horse and kicking it forward, leaving them behind.

He was not too far behind the Court wizard, he saw. He dug his heels deeper into his horse and it neighed in retaliation, but obeyed. He flew by the old man as he disappeared behind him in a blur. The wind kissed his face and played with his hair. The sweet smell of maple tickled his nose. For a while he rode, horse hooves crunching the leaves with every galloping stride, the whip-like sound his hair made _clicking_ behind him. And the moons smiled ominously down on him, one as silver as brandished steel, the other redder than any dragon's fire.

A red circle in the distance ran over his sight and glistened like a fluorescent ruby. He could see the shadows of three men eclipsed by its blazing, hellish light. He kicked his courser harder.

When he was near enough, with the light spilling over trees and leaves, he reined her to a stop, hastily leaping off and running forward, steel bared tightly in his hand.

Before him, and the three others, hewn into the ground as if it were hammered into place, stood erect a giant portal, spouting flames as red as blood into the cold, lifeless air. Like a fiery eye, it captivated him with an iris of swirling yellows and oranges, piercing him with a darkness that chilled him to the bone. _What in Oblivion is that?_ he pondered, taking one step back. As far as curiosity came, it left just as fast.

Geldall was close to it… too close for comfort. Enman and Perrin both shouted for him, pleading for him to come back. The body of the dead hart was lying to the side, Winter playfully nipping at its gigantic carcass. When standing on all fours it could have possibly been twice the size of Marcus.

Marcus could faintly hear the screams of the others.

"Geldall, get back!" Perrin urged.

"Brother, please! We need to leave!"

But the Crown-Prince took another step towards the portal.

Suddenly, Marcus could not hear the whisper of the leaves, or the whistle of the wind, or smell the sweet scent of maple. Like magic, the portal stopped time. The sky was no longer stippled with stars, but shattered with red lightning. Thunder roared above.

Like surfacing from water, a dark figure stepped out from within the portal. It stood in front of Geldall, towering over him. Its armor was blacker than night, with cracks and chinks in it that glowed red-hot like a volcano, pulsing like a rapid heartbeat.

Marcus stopped breathing.

Like waking from a dream, Geldall staggered back and drew his short silver blade, whipping his cloak over his shoulder. He had said something, but the portal's high pitched _humming_ drowned out all sound for the young Imperial Captain.

He ran forward to save his Prince.

The dark figure drew its sword; a demonic, malformed black blade with edges more rugged than rocks on a fjord. A crimson hue gleaned down its surface, and for some reason Marcus knew that it was hotter than anything he would touch.

Geldall lunged forward with his short sword. It whipped at the dark shadow, the flat of the blade catching the blinding light of the portal.

 _Clink._ Swords interlocked for just a moment. Geldall was pushed back from the recoil, but he lunged forward again, determined to uphold his honor.

 _Clink._ He lunged with his weapon keenly weighed in front of him, his shortsword grazing against the black steel in a flurry, _clink clink clink_ , before staggering back some more.

 _Clink_. The third engage was met with a falter. Marcus had barely reached his Prince in time to try and block the thrust of the armored shadow.

The black steel squelched, satisfied, as it bit into the chest of the Crown-Prince. Geldall gave out a cry as he cupped the wound with his fingers. Black blood poured like a fountain into his hands, and he tumbled backwards with a half-hearted groan.

Marcus swung his blade, aiming to hack the shadow's head off. But when his steel met with the ebon steel of its armor, the sword shrieked, breaking in two.

He did not feel the sword pierce through him. He had no idea how many times it tore through his flesh, sinking into his skin in a jabbing motion, before he fell backwards as well.

 _The others…_ The ground fell up to slap his face as he tasted soot and gravel and the metal tang of blood. Reaching deep into his mind he managed to scoot himself away from the blaring red light. _They must be warned._

Something hard slammed down on his chest, and he squirmed like a bug, fingers fruitlessly grabbing the soil in front of him to try and get him to slide further away. But he was anchored, chest caving under all the pressure. He heard several ribs _snap_ below him as the force grew tenfold, and his chest completely collapsed.

His father was talking to him. He was not sad anymore, but almost giddy. _She was a beauty, with beautiful locks of silver hair,_ he said as he tickled Marcus.

He laughed. "I'm not a girl," he said. Something thick and warm was in his mouth, and he tried to spit it out. But he only laughed harder. "Stop, it hurts," he pleaded, and laughed and laughed until he could not feel his chest any longer.


	2. Avery

**Avery**

The laughter woke him.

Rotting flesh filled his nose, and darkness shrouded his eyes like a cloak. At first he thought he was dreaming again, but a second glance reminded him where he was.

The swinging lantern in the hall croaked on its hinges at every strike of thunder. Its ginger claws pulled at the black-iron bars, smitten with dirt and sweat and blood. Shivering, he crawled closer to its light, hoping to find a shred of warmth with it.

A voice pierced through the darkness with a hollow timbre. "Cold, thief?"

He corked his head back towards the deeper end of his cell-room, where the reaches of the lantern light could not touch. Eyes as luminous as diamonds stared back at him. "I had a nightmare."

The shadow beyond stirred. "What was it this time? More death? Screaming?"

"A great gate," Avery said, frowning. He wondered why the Redguard had taken such an interest in his dreams. "And laughing."

"A great gate?"

He nodded. "A huge one, red and bright like a gem. It burned my eyes whenever I looked straight into it."

"Do you remember where you were in the dream?"

"No." _Only darkness._ Whenever he prodded his mind for more, a surge of pain seared his head. Dizzy and dazed, he pulled the tattered blanket of his bedroll over his shoulders, which were drenched in sweat. "Enough," he said wearily, "I have no wish to discuss my dreams right now, Flamothias."

The one named Flamothias scooted forward so that part of the lantern light shed its grace upon his face. A blush of sickly paleness enveloped his gaunt cheeks and angular jawline, but the spaces under his curious eyes were plagued black with circles. He had a nose as long as a sword-hilt, and short-cropped, raisin-black curls that stopped short of his scarred forehead.

The Redguard regarded the young Imperial quietly. The lantern light past their cell flickered, and thunder roared over them, shaking the dungeon. "You have fevers when you dream," he said, silent as a ghost.

"Do I?" Avery asked disdainfully. He hated it when the Redguard would try to pry more out of him than he wanted to tell. "Would you like to take me to the chapel then? I'm sure the Jailor will loan you her key."

The lines over the Redguard's jaw and neck tightened. "Careful, _thief_. Your tongue is not as sharp as my dagger."

The Imperial laughed. "What, the dagger you don't have? Save me from your idle threats, Redguard."

Flamothias' eyebrows were knitted together in a frown of agitation. The pasty, pink line where his mouth was tightened. "I will have it when I am released from this filth. You can be rest assured on that."

"Aye, and what good would that do you? I'll be released well before you will, and when I am, I intend to run as far away from here as I can."

At that, the Redguard smiled ominously; a crooked halo of rotting teeth. Avery saw the light in his shallow, colorless eyes wink with satisfaction. He slunk back into his corner. Avery turned away from him with a chill.

The cell he had been holed in was still dark, but his eyes adjusted well enough to make out the rest of its features. A lone table of birchwood stood on three wobbly legs against one of the other walls. A tan pitcher, bordered by two clay plates, sat over it, the food from their last meal still decaying with a foul smell that made him wrinkle his nose. Two chairs made of a darker wood flanked the table, one upturned as if it had been thrown down in anger.

He lost count of the days he had been in here. The cell was a timeless chamber, where the comings of the sun and moon were no longer familiar to him. Time and time again he would lay awake, stubbornly trying to keep himself reminded of who he was before he got here, when sleep would take him. _And then the nightmares._ They happened more oft than not, with him waking up bathed in sweat, their imprint fresh on his memory like a new kill. But he could not, for the love of all the divines on Nirn, remember even half of them.

Sometimes he would recall hearing voices in his dreams, saying things… of what, he was not entirely sure, but he dared not mention anything about them, not even to his cellmate. He heard that voices in dreams were a dark omen, and those who had them were on the path to insanity. _Divines help me._ He hoped that he was not going insane.

When the nightmares first ailed him, however long ago, he had gone to his cellmate about them. Flamothias was a mage of great knowledge, or so he boasted. He still remembered the brooding scowl over the Redguard's face when he first brought them up.

"Not nightmares," Flamothias told him feebly, "but premonitions. It seems a higher power has chosen you to warn the people of Tamriel, for better or for worse."

"You're out of your mind. Even if that is true, no one would listen to a prisoner, a thief…"

"No, perhaps not. And perhaps I am wrong," he had said with a hungering ponderment. "But you _are_ touched with something."

"Touched with something?"

The Redguard cocked his head pensively. "I have not seen it before in the way I see it with you. The firelight seems to dance around you, not on you, the guards pay attention to your pleas, and even the shadows hiss at your mere presence. You have a curb of influence on the material world around you."

The conversation ended there. Not because Avery did not believe the Redguard, but because he was afraid of what else he was going to say. He never remembered having dreams that had such a powerful effect on his body the way these did. Headaches, quivering muscles, even losing control of bodily functions...

The young Imperial shivered some more. It was times like these that he wished he didn't overthink things so much. He curled up into a ball, trying to still his mind… _deep breaths…_

The rain grew angry as time passed by, their violent _pit-pats_ only getting louder and louder as the storm rolled over them. Avery could hear the waves of the great Lake Rumare crash into the nearby Imperial shores.

"You missed breakfast," Flamothias said, his forgone anger now thinning away. "But lunch is soon." He looked out the small square window up at the top of their cell. Grey light poured over his face. "It seems that Cyrodiil weeps today."

 _Weeping._ The young thief frowned. No, nobody should have been weeping today. There should have been laughter - there _was_ laughter… somewhere.

The young Imperial grabbed his head. Like a drum, it pulsed with pain. The portrait of a young man with silver-blonde hair sailed across his memory. _Divines, why can't I remember anything?_ It bothered him that he could not fish out more of his thoughts. Every time he tried it felt like something very hot and sharp was splitting his skull in half. No matter how hard he pushed, the only thing he could see was the great oval gate, alive with fiery light.

They were soon served lunch, which consisted of two beef strips and a mob of cold peas. Jessen Icesteel was on Jailor duty this week. She was a skinny, flat-chested Nord who liked to talk her weight in a conversation and more. She would usually accompany the prisoners while they ate their lunch, covering the gossip of the realm, talking about this Lord and that Count, and marriages and balls and great parades. But today she walked down the sloping steps from the city barracks in haste, her young boyish face grim with silence. The light chainmail she wore was _changing,_ up and down, as she went and served the prisoners before sitting at the end of the hall, just underneath the lantern.

"Something seems amiss, Icesteel," Flamothias said, taking his plate from her as he sat up next to the prison bars. "The waters of the lake growl, and the rain falls with a sorrow I cannot quite taste. What is wrong?"

The jailor gathered up her straw-blonde hair into a little bun. Her cheeks were flared with a red flush. It looked as if she had been on the move all day.

"The Emperor's first two sons…" she said with a crack in her voice. "They're dead."

Her words echoed down the dungeon hall. Soon Avery could see the faces of many prisoners popping in between the bars of cells further down along, all of their sullen eyes on the brooding jailor who had captivated their attention. The young Imperial tore away a piece of one of his beef strips.

"Dead?"

"Aye, Geldall Septim, the Crown-Prince, and the middle brother, Enman. They were on a hunting trip in the Great Forest… you know how dark the forest can get, can't you? They seemed to have wandered too deep and something - or _someone_ \- killed them, in cold blood."

"So we don't know how they died?"

"No, I didn't have the guts to ask, pardon, I would've told you if I did… the way Captain Hieronymous looked today when he gave the news… you should've seen it for yourselves. I never seen a man that brave look that scared _ever_ before. One thing I do know is that they were murdered… everyone who was there says so… at least, those who survived. Lord Indarys, Count Cheydinhal's younger brother, even his bodyguard, the _huge_ one who won the tourney in Kvatch a couple of winters back, Sir Hardwyn Hill, and Rayond Drismond, the royal clothier, and Lord Illond Fastus and Jorrva, son of the Jarl of Windhelm, and several others… they all say it was murder. A plot to overthrow the Septim line."

A murmur seeped through the cells now. Thunder roared again, shaking the lantern hanging above her. Flamothias continued pressing her for answers. "The third boy, the youngest, Edel Septim, is he alive still?"

"Yes, thank the Divines," Jessen said. "Him and his father, the Emperor. Edel chose not to go because of prior plans here in the City."

Flamothias looked paler than usual when she responded. "Who else was murdered?"

"The Imperial City court wizard and battlemage, Nevacen Thorn, Lord Sedus Agryn of High Rock, and the newly appointed captain of the Imperial City Watch, Marcus Anton. They say a lot of his men disappeared as well when they heard the news and tried to bring his body back from the forest… it's a shame, they say Nevacen Thorn knew more magic and history than any mage of Tamriel, and that Marcus was to be the youngest guard anointed to City watch captain…"

The name Marcus shot at Avery's memory. His thoughts convulsed, swirling like storm winds in his head. _Guard Captain…_ the position was far too familiar to him. Was he a guard captain? _No…_ _I'm a thief, a coward…_

He still remembered when he fled. It was not the only thing he had done wrong on that fateful night in Chorrol…

His head pounded against him, sending a huge wave of pain that ran down his whole body.

A voice piped up from one of the cells further down the hallway. "If I were a bettin' man, I'd wager my drakes on the brotherhood… bunch of assassins won't bat an eye at killin' even a baby boy… what's to stop them from murderin' the Emperor's sons?"

The lantern swung, and revealed his face for just a moment. It was grisled, with curls of ebon sprouting from every patch of skin on his face. Small, curious peeping eyes stared at them with a vindictive fervor.

"Perhaps, Corys," Jessen said, "but-"

"You soft in the head?" another voice bellowed from the back. "You'd need a fat piece of akatosh to be able to get the brotherhood to assassinate royalty. I wager they not wanting to do anything with the Septims cause they don't want to all get killed themselves."

"Oh yeah? I'll wager 50 drakes you're eating up your own shit-"

"50 drakes all you have you fucking cotter? I could _shit_ more money-"

" _Boys,_ hush!" Jessen clashed her blade against the nearest set of cell bars. "I didn't come down here to hear you all arguing. Quiet down, otherwise the guard-captain's going to have my head for it… meaning no more news for any of you. Now, I'm leaving before any more of this gets out of hand."

She left with whispers nipping at her heels.

Avery laid back as his head pounded against him. Sweat dribbled down over his cheeks and nose, and he found every waking moment harder and harder to breathe. He almost lost sense of everything around him, drifting into another short sleep, until another soft voice spoke from the cell opposite his.

"A right tight cunt she has, if you ask me, don't you think, Flamothias?"

Avery raised his head up just a little to catch a glimpse of the tired Redguard before he replied. "I wouldn't know," he said shallowly, "I didn't ask you, Valen."

"Then you've got a right tight cunt too, probably," came the voice, chuckling.

"Spare me your words tonight, I wish to be able to keep my ears when I'm released from prison."

Valen Dreth was a scrawny dark elf who never understood when to stop talking. Sharing a cell akin to Avery and Flamothias, he was the first thing they woke up to, apart from each other, and the last thing they fell asleep to. On most days Valen was tolerable, keeping to himself with whispers and random outbursts of angry muttering. But on some others, he was quite nasty, taking out his anger on anything and everything around him.

"You Redguards are all the same," he scoffed, scooting closer to the edge of his cell. "Too prideful to admit that you've ended up as bad of scum as the rest of the lot. Even now," he snarled, "you can't look me in the eyes, you pathetic piece of trash. I hope they make a slave out of you when this is all finished."

Flamothias had responded, but Avery could not keep fighting the fever as it took him. His mind was stripped bare, and he dove straight into waters that he should not have gone into. He had hoped his sleep was dreamless, but it wasn't. This dream was of wine as bright as gold, spilling over a great stairway…


	3. Ormellius

**Ormellius**

The Countess' men poured in through the gate like a river. Everywhere he saw knights and soldiers alike, with the silver arrowhead of Anvil's sigil checkered over their copper tunics and shields. They came in by fours, all mounted, with many holding banners that upheld the city flag, or other banners that showed the separate arms of smaller lords and knights who served under the Queen of the Golden Coast. Ormellius knew many. There were the Braxs, with a long banner that outlined a hollow gibbous moon on a field of black; the Holderfords, whose flag was quartered on a field of dark yellow and blue, where the golden seed of an apple was sewn in the center; the Fyreharts, whose banner presented a deep gash in the chest of a flaming man. There were also sigils even he did not recognize: lime-green banners with bolts of cobalt struck across them and purple banners with an orange swordfish leaping across. _Newly appointed lords and knights,_ he guessed. Countess Millona Umbranox always loved the great fantasies of the traditional court.

Ormellius was dressed in a robe made of wolf's fur. The sun made the pelts look violet, but in the dark they were blacker than shadow. A loosely knit undershirt swathed his old torso, and two suede shoes made of fine leather and lined with golden silk covered his feet. It was a simple wear for a Count, but it paid homage to the old Kings of Colovia. He never fancied the extravagant lifestyles most other nobles relished in.

He walked down the battlements of his castle wall, flanked by his two most trusted captains, Savlian Matius, of the City guard, and Menien Goneld, of the Castle guard. Menien was an old wolf, with a crown of silver on his head and dark emerald eyes, where as Savlian was still yet a pup, his snarl as threatening as his youthful bite.

They descended into the inner bailey of the castle where most of the knights and lords of Anvil dismounted, talking quietly among each other. There was a hostile air that encircled the castle walls, stifling his guardsmen who manned them. It was hard to tell what they all thought about their Count inviting another sovereign into his Castle for food and drink. Ormellius did not blame them. The people of Kvatch did not trust easily.

Millona Umbranox looked as beautiful as ever when she rode through the great iron portcullis of Castle Kvatch on her silver mare. A quiet solemnity quivered in the light of her eyes when she dismounted, her dress swirling around her like black fire. Two men guarded her flanks. Lord Thomas Brax looked as if he had lost some weight, but the same plump chipmunk face peeped out from his white armor with fidgety eyes. His bald head looked like a shaven mouse, pink and disgusting. The other was a knight, his purple shield of the orange swordfish pulled from his arm by his squire. The visor on his closed helm hid most of his face, but Ormellius still saw the twinkle of inexperience in his dark eyes.

"Count Ormellius Goldwine." She smiled wanly at him; a court smile that was as shallow as a shoreline. "It is nice to see that you have been mourning the deaths of the Emperor's sons."

"You as well, Countess Umbranox," Ormellius said, nodding to her black dress. "Your visit is unexpected, my lady. I had not thought for you to come all the way from Anvil. I hope the journey has treated you well?"

"Well enough. We encountered some mountain lions along the way, but nothing my household guard could not take care of. It has been a long ride though," she said, beckoning to the great hall. "Shall we?"

"Of course." Ormellius led the way to the twin arch doors. "What brings you here at such a dire hour, my lady?"

"A proposal," she curtly said. "But for now, let us eat. My scouts were able to arrive in ample time so that you were able to make preparations?"

"Yes." He ordered his castle guard to clear out the west wing for her as well as ordered the cooks to start preparing for dinner hours earlier than expected. "We will have enough food for everyone, I assure you." He signaled for Menien Goneld to open the doors to the great hall.

Castle Kvatch was an antique, molded and constructed from the ancient architects of Old Colovia. Flanked by water, the only way to its inner bailey was through a thin bridge that housed two men abreast. Any wise man knew, looking at the jumble of diamond-toothed battlements crowning the several other spires looming over that bridge, that it was folly to try and break the castle by ram. Hundreds - if not maybe a couple of thousand - of lives would be thrown away just to get to the front gate.

After crossing the inner bailey you approached the entrance to the Keep through the means of the great hall - an antechamber so spacious that not even a thousand torches could keep warm. They entered, Count Kvatch, Countess Anvil, and their bodyguards, as guards donned in Kvatch wear bowed to their coming. A long, purple carpet tongued from the twin arch doors straight down the middle of the hall, climbing a few stone steps before stopping short of a small throne. Light from a hole towards the top of the castle ceiling filtered down over the throne, making it glisten as if it were made from ice crystals.

"It has been a long time," Countess Umbranox said, walking gracefully along the carpet. "Yet I have not forgotten the beauty of this Castle: simple, vast, and dark. Just like you, Ormellius." She laughed softly.

 _I am not dark,_ he thought to himself. Silence was more of the right word for him. Silence harbored fear within weak minds and forced tongues to fill in the void. But he was too tired to argue with her. "As you say, My lady."

"As I say?" She smiled. "If I ask you to strip naked and run around your great hall like a fool, you'd do it?"

He ignored her playful jab. "I have arranged for a separate feast hall just for us. The rest of your men shall share food and drink with mine out in the bailey and the great hall." He led them up a twin set of stairs that curled upwards to a balcony behind the throne. From there, a narrow slit of darkness awaited them. Ormellius walked through without hesitation, beckoning the others to follow. "My father always told me that Castle Kvatch had spiritual ancestors watching over the Goldwine bloodline."

"You sound doubtful," Countess Umbranox said.

"I'm not." Ormellius opened the door from within the darkness. The scents of goat and boar waltzed into the small hallway, and a waft of warm, moist air tickled their faces. "I've been saved countless of times here as a child, doing foolish things…"

This smaller dining hall looked lavish, yet not extraordinary… like the simplistic beauty of a country cottage, sitting in a valley between giant mountain tops and lush forests. One long ebon table stretched out, taking most of the room's space, but even with its presence the room felt spacious enough to move around in comfortably. Chairs manned the table, some with carvings of wolf jaws on the arms and others cushioned with the pelts of other smaller wolves. The wall paintings glowed under the shattered light of the black chandeliers. Most of them were portraits of the Goldwine family line.

"Menien," Ormellius said, walking Countess Umbranox to her chair. "What did I say about the portraits?"

"Apologies, My count," the old guard said, bowing his head. "I'll remove them immediately."

The Countess frowned; a polite frown that told Ormellius meant no disrespect if he kept the portraits as they were. "I rather like these," she said, gazing at each one individually. "Gives the room a nice color. Why are you having them taken down?"

"I never liked them up in the first place," Ormellius said. His City Guard captain shifted nervously behind him, only because he knew too well the story. "Savlian, you may go for now. Let the Countess and I talk in peace."

"Yes, My Count. I'll be outside the door if you need-"

" _No._ Go and enjoy yourself with the rest of the feast outside."

The Guard Captain sternly locked his jaw and bowed his head, turning on his heels to leave.

"You seem all uptight, Ormellius," the countess said. "It makes me wonder if your people invest their time in hot baths."

Ormellius looked at her, studied her. Her lips were a lush red, pursed forward. They glinted like several small rubies in the orange light. Expectantly he took a step towards her, and then stopped, looking back at the two other men in the room with them. _Her bodyguards…_

"Cat got your tongue?" She asked, smiling coyly. He only kept looking at her, hungry, but not in the way he had imagined. "Oh alright," she said. " _Go_ , both of you… and don't come unless I need you."

The two men bowed their heads and made their way out.

Ormellius cleared his throat, walking to the other end of the table as he sat. She did the same.

"Do you get much visitors here, Ormellius?"

He stiffened. "Not frequently, Milona. Why have you come?"

Milona's eyes softened. There was a laugh in her voice. "Look at you, Ormellius. You're such a tired old man." She sounded almost sympathetic the way she spoke, her voice cracking at every inflection. "What's made you so wary of my presence? Has it truly been too long?"

"I just want to know why you're here."

She sighed theatrically, waving a hand in the air as if swooning. "A lament that is fit for a minstrel's song played at court…"

"Your drama surprises me. I never took you for a damsel in distress."

"If you don't like my acting," she snapped playfully, bolting back upright with a sly smirk, "don't ask questions you already know the answer to."

"Fine. You are here regarding the Emperor's son's deaths, I assume? What of it?" He asked.

"Do I need to pry everything out of you like a seed in a melon?" she whined, pushing a thin strand of hair from over her face. "It truly is a lot of nasty work, getting my fingers red and wet…"

He tried to ignore her jabs as best as he could. "You had a proposal?"

"Well, first I had questions." She straightened herself in the wolf-carven chair, her face ridden of any kind of foolishness she had possessed not moments ago. Ormellius smiled sadly. That was his wife's chair, that she had sat so long ago in. _And Milona sits on it better than she ever did._ "Has the Emperor sent word of anything to you regarding their deaths?"

The question caught him off guard. _Yes, in fact_ , his heart wanted to say, _he sent a letter not a week ago regarding their deaths_. But he knew better. He was the Duke of Colovia, Count Kvatch,, the head councilman of swords. Any information given to him in confidence by the Emperor meant it stayed in confidence. He stiffened his face. "Nothing new. Speculation and rumor, perhaps, but that's about it."

"Liar."

"What I discuss with the Emperor is none of your concern at the moment," he said, tone stiff like ice.

She looked him over a bit, her eyes weighing him, as if testing to see if she had the authority to push a bit farther. "Fine."

"This proposal?"

"Ah ah ah," she waved a slim finger in the air. "I'm not done yet with my questions… that is, _if_ you have the power to answer them."

"Ask away."

"Rumor has it that you intend to ride for the Imperial City soon. Why is that?"

"You unfortunately ring the bell twice. I cannot state the business I have in the Imperial city."

"You were requested by the Imperial Battlemage, Handyse Florence. I heard it myself from Carahil, the head of the guild chapter in Anvil."

He smiled wanly. _She truly is a fox, the way she tries to slip through things._ "Yes, I cannot argue that I have been summoned by the Imperial battlemage. But as to why, I cannot disclose such information."

"Well _damn it_ , Ormellius." She stood up fervently, a sudden redness flushing over her face as if she were drunk from wine. "I need to know how to protect my people… I can feel the tension rise in the streets. They don't like not knowing what's going on. I promised them I'd find out. And I didn't make this journey all for nothing, for Oblivion's sake."

"So that's why you came? So you could extract information out of me?"

She slunk her shoulders back; a small token that showed she was lying a little. "Well, no. Not entirely…"

"I am the Duke of Colovia. As long as I rule, there is nothing your people should fear. You will receive the information regarding the situation of the Emperor and his sons in due time."

"Yes, that is all fine, but my people are starting to panic, Ormellius. Just the other day a fight broke out in the streets between two commoners and a handful of guards…" she frowned. "I felt sorry for the commoners."

"I do too," he admitted. "It is not fair to them that they should not know-"

" _Not that_ ," she quipped, face muscles drawn in a sharp snarl. "They're wine traders."

Ormellius looked nonplussed. "What does that have to do-"

"They're out of business. All the shipments they had invested in haven't come in, and they've been living on the streets. Let me ask," she interrupted. "If you've gotten any shipments of wine from Skingrad in the east?"

 _Shipments of wine?_ He tried to remember if he had checked with Savlian about the trade coming in and out of the city anytime recently. He did know that Skingrad held the mantlepiece to wine trading in the province. The vineyards there were the finest he had ever tasted. "I don't recall-"

"There has been no word of Count Hassildor. All of my messengers I've sent…" a chill seemed to run behind the tight-laced embroidery of her black dress and down her spine. "Even Lacklus, my city captain, hasn't returned."

Ormellius remembered the burly nord woman who stood almost two feet higher than the biggest soldier he ever saw. She had won a tourney here, not a year ago. How could he not remember a woman that size? "How long has it been since, Milona?"

"Weeks," she said. "No exporting trade shipments have made it back from Skingrad either. My people are worried, Ormellius. How have you not noticed Skingrad's absence?"

He wanted to say it was because of the letter regarding the Emperor. He wanted to say, as much as he tried to block out the possible dangers of what was to come, he had tried as hard as he could to run things smoothly here in Colovia. Embarrassment ran through him like ice water, and he suddenly wanted to explain to her about everything. _About…_

He stiffened. Skingrad was the last of the three cities that belonged to Colovia. And he was their Duke. "How long has Skingrad been silent?"

"I don't know, Ormellius… weeks? It seemed very close to the deaths of Enman and Geldall. Can I blame the count though? He loves his people. He would do anything in his power to keep them safe, even if it meant closing all trade routes to adjacent cities."

He had gotten mad at that. In all his life he had only met the Count of Skingrad a handful of times, and every time it felt as if he were talking down on him, mocking him even…

 _I aim to protect my people as much as he does,_ he wanted to say. _I was crowned Duke of Colovia for a purpose_ …

But in his mind's nook, he knew that the title only passed down hereditarily. He did not earn it whatsoever. It had been given to him on a golden pedestal.

Milona walked to him, and he had barely enough time to push his chair back and stand as she did. "I just want to know what's going on. Why does the Emperor not want the people to know?"

"He doesn't want the people to panic," he said plainly.

She took his face in her hands, and finally, for once in probably a decade, he saw those blue eyes, rimmed with a halo of silver. They flicked like lightning, darting nervously around his face, searching for answers. "That bad?"

He did not have the dignity to lie to her. "Or worse."

She let out a laugh of desperation, tinged at the edges with a manic outcry. "And here I hoped it was a hunting accident. A boar, or a pack of wolves, perhaps..."

"No. No hunting accident… no wolves." He felt his voice, and it was different. Cautious, hesitant, nervous. It was not the voice he used as a Count, but the voice he used when he spoke about his family at the funeral. It was the voice of his fatherly love, of his forlorn loss and weakened past. It had not one ounce of command in it, and when Milona heard that voice, her face cracked as she suddenly smiled, burying it into his chest.

"You're still there," she said, voice flitting past his wolf-cloak in a muffle. "Still Ormellius."

He froze, wrapping his arms around her sullenly.

And she was Milona, the Milona he knew so long ago. But she was refined now… she was more mature, hardened, seasoned. He looked at her, and he did not see that young beautiful damsel who sang to the moonlight on the edge of her balcony anymore, letting the sea-wind play with her hair and dream-songs filling her soul. She was a hardened woman, heart like strong oak, built tough after the years she spent alone without her husband, ruling a city she had grown to dislike. He held her, and wished he could tell her: _If only I could say the same about you._


	4. Erius

**Erius**

The pink-orange touch of the sunset lit the yellow hills of the hinterlands with a magic fire. Wind tussled between the tall grasses, cutting through them with howls as sharp as swords. Naked oaks, war-torn from their feud with autumn's call, wilted and waited as the twilight came, bringing a fierce chill with it.

Erius watched it all, leaning against the battlements of the outer city wall. She had watched when the Countess' men came, streaming their banners of green and orange and black and gold. She had watched when the sun was still high in the aquamarine sky, when the knights of Anvil strode along the kindling hills, weaving between the naked trees, their armor more white-fire than silver-steel. She had watched as the people of Kvatch scrambled out of their houses to gape at the procession as the host passed through the gates, the _clip-clap_ of horse hooves melding in with the curious murmurs from the crowd. She had watched. And she had waited.

She knew they were coming. Father told her so. Father even had the decency to pay a visit to the ransacked shack at the edge of town, telling them all to be on their best behavior. And then father had left, not looking at each of their faces more than once. It was the first time he visited in months.

"Your father is a busy man," Old Luke said a couple of nights ago after he visited. "With him being the Count and all."

"He's not _my_ father," Erius remembered saying, seething with anger. She never felt as empty and angry as she had when people talked about her father, and how great of a man he was.

"You've got his blood in your veins, girl," Old Luke laughed, clapping himself on the knee and taking a good swig of the mead he had on the table. "Whether you like it or not."

"I've got half his blood in my veins," she had corrected him. "Thank the Divines."

The old foster frowned, setting the bottle of mead back down onto the table. It landed with a _clunk._ "Complain as much as you'd like, you still have it better than most bastards out in this world. If your father were any other Count…"

"I don't _care_ if he were any other Count," she said. "He's still a horrible father."

The old man looked hesitant, now that he saw that he did some damage. "Alright, Erius, what would make him a better father?"

"Visiting at least once a month would be a start." She stopped to think. "And legitimizing Emery, Erra, and Esther so they can live in a proper home. This," she gestured all around her - to the eroding walls, the faulty staircase, the desolate floorboards - and scowled, "is not ideal for them. Emery wants to be a knight, and he'll be coming of age in a couple of months. By legitimizing him, father could make all of his dreams come true."

"Well-"

"And Erra," Erius continued hotly. "She's been sick with fevers for months now. I bet if she were legitimized she'd have been tended to by the best doctors in all the province."

"Eri-"

"And Esther is not even seven. All the other kids in the streets pick on him because he's smaller than most of them. They don't care who his father is. Do you know why? _Because_ he's a bastard."

She remembered what had happened then. Old Luke drew a long sigh, scooted his chair closer to her, and raised the candle so that the features of his face were clear for her. "It's not that simple, Erius."

"Why not?"

"Because," he moved the candle and flickered light shed over his old face. He had a balding head, with a very skinny neck with patches of brown spots that grew hair on them. His white sideburns, still tinged with a hint of ginger, loped down over his jaw, and reached up as far as his balding head. His lips quivered, as it did commonly when he tried to think carefully before he spoke. "His reputation and respect as a Count - as a man of his word - would completely diminish if people found out he had been fostering bastards."

"It was his decision to bed whores. Not ours."

Old Luke's top lip quivered. "Yes," he considered, "that it was. But he is making the best out of the situation as he can."

At that she had left, tears brimming in her eyes. He didn't understand. _None of them did._ The only three people who understood anything she had pleaded had been her siblings, and they were far younger than most of the people she knew.

So she did as their father asked the past few days. They behaved. They stayed indoors. They tried to act proper, except for Erra who was too weak to get out of bed, and Esther who had the attention span of a lackwit.

The only one of them that was allowed to leave was Erius, and that was only because she needed to get money so she could save up to buy a better house for all of them. In the recent months, she had to spend that money for medicines and herbs for Erra.

She had asked her older brothers for money a while back, both of which conscripted to the Kvatch fighter's guild under permission of Ornad Wulf-eye, the head of the chapter in the city. Both had refused her, but made promising arguments for her conscription to the guild as well. She was better with a bow than both of them, and the way she handled a dagger, they swore she'd be one of the best assassins ever to be known.

So she had been working with them, taking extra contracts for the money, trying not to botch them for the bonus gold. This had been her main source of work for two years now.

She slowly ascended the ranks: Associate, then to Apprentice, then Journeyman, then Swordsman, and finally, a couple of weeks back, she had been dubbed Kvatch Fighter's Guild Protector.

"The highest rank any woman has achieved in this city," Ornad had told her after pressing a small token of iron into her palm. She remembered how it felt: cool and comfortable, with her fingers being able to wrap just fully around it. An arm, wielding a short-sword in its hand, was carved into the token. A streaming banner was carved underneath it, with the cursive letters _Protector_ sewn across its blank slate. "Sooner or later, you keep this up, you'll be surpassing your brothers."

She had been working three times as much as them that she had been practically living at the guild instead of back at home. Every few nights she would return, only to drop off extra clothes, medicine, and food. But other than that, she was working nonstop.

"Erius?"

The voice grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her out of her reverie. The familiar wind touched her hair, blowing it askew as she revisited the old sight of the hinterlands below. The sun had dipped beyond the horizon, past the dead hills and even further, across the docks and shipyards of the city of Anvil several miles away and past the seas that bordered the edge of the world.

The boy who climbed the steps to the city wall held a certain gravity when he approached her. She could never put a single finger on it, but she always felt comforted by his voice, the way it caressed the air with a beautiful tenor. His eyes were tender too. It felt like they barely grazed against hers when he looked at her.

"I'm here, Dralus," she called to him in the dark.

The boy named Dralus flashed a toothy grin as he collapsed on the top step, giving her only moments to catch him before he fell. "I'm done… finally." He looked up at her, smiling innocently. "Thank you for waiting."

"Of course," she said. "How much did Ornad pay you?"

"Fifty drakes." He pulled out his coin purse. "But I couldn't have done the contract without your training… so here." He slipped his hand inside the purse and pulled it out with a handful of gold.

"Oh, Dralus," she said hesitantly, taking a half-step backward. "I can't."

"You can, actually," he said. "There is no law of magic that physically keeps you from being able to take this from me."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "What I mean is that I shouldn't accept this-"

"You will," he gave a toothy flash of his grin again. "Because I wouldn't have gotten nearly half of this without your help."

"Dralus-"

"Oh come off it," he said, shoving the gold into her hand. "Go buy a new dagger or something with it. Or clothes, or whatever else you want." He ran a hand through his wavy mane of hair. "You deserve it far more than I do… even waited for me… which I wouldn't be able to do in a lifetime - you know how I am with not doing anything."

"The waiting wasn't so bad," she said. "I was pretty distracted with the parade going on today."

Dralus walked over to the battlements, pressed his back flat against it, and dropped himself to a sit. Pocketing his coin purse, he pulled an apple out from inside one of the flaps of his leather jerkin. "Parade?" The bite into the apple sounded satisfying.

"The Countess' men, from Anvil," she said, plopping down next to him. "They made their way into the city today."

"Hmm," he mused. "I don't think it would be a parade if it were a host of men coming in…"

She nudged him, hard. "Oh, you know what I mean." Dralus was the type of person who took many things almost too literally.

He seemed to ignore the nudge as he took another bite out of his apple. "So, how big?"

"What?"

"How big was her host?"

"Oh," Erius said, thinking. "I'd say at least three thousand."

Dralus' face lit up like a torch. "That many? No wonder the whole city was bubbling for hours. Does the Castle even have that much room?"

Erius shook her head. "It could house half that many, possibly," she guessed. "But definitely not enough for everyone."

"You would know, wouldn't you?" he teased. Tossing the core of his apple over his shoulder, he jumped back on his two feet and held a hand for her. "C'mon."

"You're ready already? You seem pretty exhausted still."

"Yup, and I don't really see myself becoming un-exhausted, so we might as well start earlier than later. You know, before I fall asleep on you."

"Are the others coming?" She asked. She missed a lot of her friends in the guild. She had not seen them in at least a couple of days.

"Artenious and Do-ja-ri are, but I think Krevan wants to sleep early tonight. Ornad's got him doing a pretty lengthy contract come first light tomorrow morning."

She smiled. Four out of the five of them were gonna be there tonight. That was better odds than most nights.

They descended the stairs from the city wall and waltzed through the back alleys of the city. Only one moon was out tonight, poised just above the top apse of the Chapel of Akatosh, as if the tip of the church were a spearhead thrust into its bosom.

Erius knew the way pretty easily. They had taken this back route at least a thousand times now, so it was backhand knowledge for her and probably all of her friends at this point.

They turned the corner between two manors, scampering uphill until the light of the street-torch nipped orange at their wear, and then they hung a quick left. Travelling quickly down the cobblestone road, they passed the statue of Antus Pinder, and behind him the small bridge that led to the Castle. From that road, the end was clear.

Erius remembered the times Old Luke would take her and her older brothers to the arena when she was a kid. She would always make small bets with her brothers as to who would win the next fight. Smiling to herself, she remembered how she had won almost every bet. For what it was worth to her, she had a great judge of character.

She also remembered how Old Luke told her the stories of the Imperial City and their attempted conquests over the city of Kvatch. It was told that the Emperors of Cyrodiil and the Kings of Old Colovia were the greatest of foes, where they battled for control of western Cyrodiil for centuries to come. Kvatch had been the only other city in the province that had an arena outside of the Imperial City. She hadn't been to the Imperial city ever, but she had a hard time believing the arena here was beaten out, especially in terms of aesthetics.

When they arrived at the arena, Do-ja-ri and Artenious were already there, creeping along the shadows between two wealthy-looking manors. It took a good minute to be able to pick them out from the dark, but when they did, Dralus called out: "Just because you have the night on your side doesn't mean we can't see you."

The shadows shifted. Then, with hair like halo-fire, Artenious stumbled out from underneath the drape of shadow. Do-ja-ri followed not too far behind, falling over him.

"Klutz," Dralus said as Erius laughed. "How long had you been waiting until you came up with that brilliant idea?"

Artenious frowned, pushed the Khajiit from under him, and scrambled to his feet. His face posed very pensively, where his nose crinkled up short of where it usually was, and his pink lips pursed forward. "My father always said-"

"We get it," Dralus chuckled, cutting him off. "Your father was a wise man, and you aim to follow in his footsteps, yeah?"

"Oh shut up," he sighed exasperatedly. "You don't know the kind of contract we had to go through today."

"You don't know what kind of contract _I_ had to go through today." Dralus crossed his arms, pressing his chest forward as if it were a challenge. Erius rolled her eyes.

They exchanged stories. Artenious talked about how he and Do-ja-ri had to deal with a near-deaf woman's stash of sweetrolls. Turned out that they had gotten arrested because she thought they were trying to rob her. Artenious also made a note about how Do-ja-ri kept making really bad Argonian jokes while they were locked away, where there had been at least four or five other Argonians in the prison there with them. Do-ja-ri scowled behind him the whole time he was telling it.

The Dralus came forward, talking about how he had to fight off a pack of wolves that killed a nearby farmer so he could get the corpse back to his family. The talk quickly shifted to Erius and how she had watched an entire army march into the city all the way from Anvil.

"Why do you think they are here?" Do-ja-ri asked, his voice slow and a little disjunct. It had a touch of foreign accent in it. "It is not like them to travel such a way."

Dralus shrugged. "Beats me. Though I have heard rumors…"

Erius' stomach tightened as she heard Dralus talk about how many people thought the Count of Kvatch, her father, had secret affairs with the Countess of Anvil. "Some say they're lovers, and because of Countess Umbranox's husband vanishing, out of her forlorn grief she found herself in the arms of Count Goldwine."

It was a disturbing thought. She wanted to think better of her father, but she did not think she had the resolve to. _Of all the things he's already put us through…_

"I don't think it's that," Artenious said. "I heard from a peddler not the other day that Anvil is starting to get all antsy."

Dralus nodded silently. "You're talking about the Emperor's sons?" he asked.

"Yeah. That must be why she's here. Or something like that. She wouldn't have taken her whole army with her if she wanted to just see Count Goldwine, right?"

"Perhaps it is a trick," Do-ja-ri suggested. "She wants people to think it is a political move, but actually, she has come for the Count."

Dralus noticed Erius' discomfort and walked forward to touch her arm. "I think I hear them starting," he said, nodding over inside the arena. "Let's go."

They followed him into the dark crevice of the arena threshold, where he took a lockpick and wrung the lock free within ten seconds. "I heard there's a good bet going on tonight," he said conversationally.

"Between who?" Erius asked, pushing a curl from her eyes.

"Jantilus Sovern and your brother."

With a little guidance from Do-ja-ri in the utter dark, they managed to make it up the stairs and into the stands. Moonlight paved a circle for them to see as the combatants lined up against each other.

Erius noticed her brother from far away. Emmen was the oldest of all her siblings, eight-teen, brawny, muscular, and very bearded. He had fought in the arena a couple of times and had remained undefeated. The fans took to calling him "The Red Wolf," partly due to how savagely he fought, and partly because of all the red hair that was on his body. She remembered why he had fought in the arenas at times. It was because he wanted to disrespect father. He only came when father attended, and when he won, he would always spit in his direction.

This was different though. Nobody was here to watch, except for some members of the fighter's guild. There was no nobility. No crowd. No father.

Ornad Wulf-eye looked grumpy in his wolf-skin armor. A huge battleaxe was slung across his back, and pelts of all colors choked his collar. The gray color of his hair shone brightly against the light of the moon. "Combatants, do you both swear to the Divines that, upon your life you give, you will finish this fight between the two of you?"

The two combatants nodded. Erius did not know much about Jantilus, other than he was a big brutish orc with no sense of thought whatsoever. He towered over her brother like a lion did a sheep.

"That," Ornad continued grimly, "the winner would claim victory only upon the death of the defeated?"

They both nodded again. "Alright," he said, clearing away the rest of the fighters that lingered in the ring. They filed up into the stands on the opposite side, an eager silence accompanying them. "On my go. Are you both ready?"

The third nod between both of them seemed to do the trick.

"What's going on?" Artenious blurted out, though not loud enough for the rest to hear. "Isn't that your brother, Erius?"

"Are you blind? Of course it's her brother. Look at his armor… looks just like Ornad's. We all know the Wulf-eye has been training him to become the next master of the guild someday."

Erius' head swirled as a sickly coldness gripped her stomach. She also knew that her brother was being conditioned to become the next leader. So why was he gambling his life away now?

Dralus motioned for them. "C'mon, let's get closer to see what's going on. I can barely see them from up here."

They followed him down to the first ring of benches, fenced behind a long iron wall that looked nine feet tall. Erius could see her brother now, clearer than day. He looked angry. Not the kind of unbridled anger a man would get when he lost something valuable of his. But a channeled anger… the anger that one would see in a wizard, calculated and focused. There was not a touch of barbarism to his visage, now that she saw, which threw her off. Emmen was the most barbaric man she had ever met.

"Fight!" Ornad sprinted back and leaped over the wall as other members helped pull him over. Emmen and the orc danced to the center of the ring, and the fight had begun.

Jantilus had two war axes held in each hand, melded of dwemer metals. They were stained red from the dried blood of his last kill. With no shirt, Erius could see easily the muscles that chiseled his olive-green body. It looked like an armor of itself. He charged at Emmen, axes drawn high above his shoulders, and gave out a loud war cry.

Emmen simply parried the swings and kicked at the orc almost lazily. The orc spun on his heels, violently throwing his arms forward, the red-gold metal of his axes biting into the air in a full arc. Again nothing. Emmen was backpedaling now. He hadn't even drawn his weapon yet.

The fight prolonged as Emmen still had yet to draw his sword. Erius heard shouts from over the coliseum walls, but she paid it no mind. There had been many crazy commoners that filled the streets in Kvatch.

The orc had started to grow irritated now. And fatigued. His chest heaved much faster and heavier than before. It was then, after he lunged forward sloppily, that Emmen drew his sword and, with a strike quicker than light, carved a deep gash of red into the leg of the brute.

Jantilus cried out as he staggered back, letting Emmen progress forward swiftly. In one graceful leap he slammed the pommel of his blade into the orc's chest, and everyone heard the crack of a rib. Or two.

It was then that Erius knew that Emmen was playing with the poor warrior. _He must have pissed him off to another level,_ she thought, _because Emmen wants him to suffer_. Her brother's anger was a frightening thing.

The one shout extended to several outside of the walls, loud enough for most of the audience to turn their heads. Suddenly, the gate to the grounds was opened, and guards, donned in the silver Kvatch mail and the white-wolf tunic, piled in, lances at the ready.

Immediately the fight stopped, and orc and imperial stood back-to-back, weapons bared towards the encircling legion of guardsmen.

Out from the gate strode in one man Erius had been very familiar with. Savlian Matius of the City guard looked smaller than what she remembered as a kid. But his eyes still looked threatening, the way they darted around wolfishly. _He looks more like a wolf than any of us do_ , she mused, stepping back. Dralus almost had to keep her from falling backwards over the seat.

"Emmen, son of Ormellius," Savlian said, almost disinterestedly. Emmen eased himself a bit, and the guardsman walked over to him, unrolling a piece of parchment and showing it to him. "You have been summoned by our Count Kvatch, Ormellius Goldwine, on the crimes you have decided to commit against your fellow brethren and city citizens of Kvatch. Upon his royal decree, I arrest you on behalf of unnecessary violence and convention with gambling. What do you have to say for your defense?" Savlian's voice was loud and clear, like a royal page or jester. It cut through the cold bite of the air, resonating like a snarl.

Emmen had said something unintelligible, and suddenly Savlian waved his arm. Guards poured in around him, tackling him to the ground. It took at least four or five before they were able to finally force him down successfully. "I know a lot of these faces," Savlian called out, looking around. "I had thought the head of the fighter's guild was better than this, sneaking into the Count's grounds past curfew and casting matches as if you owned the place. You are hereby put under probation by the crown.

"As for the rest of you," he said, and immediately Erius, suddenly numbed by the event unfolding, was pulled down by Dralus who had mouthed to her: _we need to get out now!_ "I will find you, and when I do, you will all be fined."

Erius was tugged by both Artenious and Dralus, who had skidded off towards the lower exit on the far side of the arena.

The loud, articulate curses of her brother echoed across the arena as he was dragged away, loud as any wolf's howl.


	5. Avery II (Interlude)

**Avery**

 _FIND HIM, AND CLOSE SHUT THE JAWS OF OBLIVION_.

He was sweating again, his mind numb with pain. Darkness danced at the corner of his eyes when he woke, and soon enough he found himself inhaling the dank air of the prison cell.

The prison bars gripped at the darkness beyond. Nothing stirred, except for the soft breath of night treading lightly on the silver tongue of moonlight streaking in a square pool across the floor.

"Flamothias?"

Nothing.

"Flamothias, I had another-"

"I know, I have been watching."

The Redguard's voice rang like a broken lute string, dark and wiry. His eyes suddenly came alive from a distant corner in the room, licked pale by the moon.

Avery shivered. _He is the shadow's doppleganger_ , he found himself thinking. "What did you see?" He did not like talking about his dreams to Flamothias, but this one had been particularly disturbing.

"Pain, suffering, confusion…" his voice trailed off like a whistle-bird, fluttering and scattering into the darkness. "You thrashed a little more than usual this time around. What did you dream of?"

He answered with the first word that came to him. "Kvatch."

 _Those eyes…_ he thought, shivering. Was it panic he saw in the Redguard's eyes? Desperation? He could not tell.

"What of Kvatch did you dream of?"

Avery gripped his forehead. Pain flushed down the side of his face and down across his neck. "A girl… a young girl…"

"A girl?"

"She was a daughter of… some noble..." he thrashed against the floor as the pain became unbearable.

The Redguard's voice suddenly became soothing. "Calm, thief. Be calm. Do not dwell on your dreams now. You will only be pained."

"No," Avery said, gritting his teeth. "If this pain keeps going on, I'll gut myself within the fortnight. You said you were a wizard once."

Flamothias, nonplussed by the comment, burst out in a small chuckle. "That I was, yes. Though that was before I was expelled from the University."

"Can you teach me?"

"Teach you?" He sounded hesitant, and Avery's hope started to go out like a candle in a winter's gale.

"How to block the pain, how to remember my dreams - _divines,_ anything that would help - please!"

He heard his voice crack carry across the dungeon hall. It was a sharp chirp, snapping at the air around it with tiny jaws. Avery cursed himself. _I have become a madman,_ he thought, and then thought of the other prisoners here in the dungeon. _Why should any of them believe otherwise?_

Flamothias stirred slightly, his shadow a darker shape against the already pitch blackness of the cell. "I cannot cure you."

He had been anticipating that answer. "I don't care… just help me with the pain… there has to be something I can do."

"Certain mental practices, perhaps. Though you are too weak to start now. Perhaps in the morrow."

Avery felt satisfied with that answer. He laid his head back and rested his eyes.

"Icesteel came in today," Flamothias said out of the silence.

"Did she?" Her shift wasn't for another half week. "Flamothias, how long had I been asleep?"

"Four days, with occasional slips."

 _Divines!_ It was one thing to be so caught up in a dream to forget who you were, but the young imperial never realized how long he had been sleeping when he went through his forced dreams. "Four days?"

"Four days. Icesteel said that the Countess of Anvil has visited Kvatch. Perhaps you have dreamt of her?"

Avery shook his head. "No, that can't be. I had a father… who I was angry about…"

"You had a father that _you_ were angry about?" Even in the darkness Avery could imagine Flamothias quirking his eyebrow the way he would when he was worried. "Be careful… the dreams you have are dangerous… even the strong-willed would go insane if they believed, even for a moment, that their dreams were their own reality."

He ignored it all the same. He had to get his dream out as fast as he could before he forgot it. "Who I was dreaming of… she had a father. A noble, but…" the pain felt like a hot pincer grabbing at his forehead, trying to break through his skull. "She… she was some sort of bastard. Illegitimate."

"Illegitimate."

"Yes. Flamothias… my dreams are changing. I am starting to become aware that I'm not me anymore in the dreams… as if I'm living through other people as they go about."

"This is peculiar," Flamothias admitted. The shadow that was him moved closer. His pale eyes were watchful. "Do you have control of these people you dream through?"

"N- no." Now that he thought about it, the dreams felt more like he was apart of a journey. Someone else had the reins, and he was simply sitting on the saddle.

Grim silence shrouded the room then. "Would you like to find out if you can?"

"Wh-what?" the question caught him off guard. Had the Redguard known something about his dreams that he had been keeping from him? Why had he not told him from the beginning?

"Do you believe in the Nine Divines?"

"No," Avery said sternly. _Why was he changing the subject?_ "I don't believe in any pantheon."

Flamothias was now so close to Avery that he could see his face bloom in the moonlight. "Do you know what they are called?"

"The Aedra?" Other than that name, Avery had not a clue.

Flamothias nodded his head. "And if you know about the Aedra, then, of course, you know about the Daedra."

"I do." It was simple: The Aedra and the Daedra were enemies of a sort. Common folklore differed only that the Aedra would act indirectly in the mortal realm, and the Daedra would act directly. Neither side was wholly evil, nor good.

"Some people say that the Daedra are more powerful than the Aedra."

"Crazy fools and fanatics, perhaps," Avery said. "I don't doubt their devotion," he said meekly. "Just their ability to understand religion."

"And how many times have the Divines answered your prayers when you went to church?" Flamothias asked with a frown. "How many times have you seen the Divines first-hand?" His patience was thinning.

"I can answer it for you. None. Yes, they may be real, and yes, they may have intervened once in a while to save our world from imminent threats… but never directly. They can never answer your immediate prayers like the Daedra do."

Avery wanted to say _I don't pray to the Nine Divines,_ but he was afraid of angering the Redguard any further. So he kept silent as Flamothias spoke.

"They say the source to many ailments can be looked at from the severity of the illness. You have a rather peculiar illness that a higher power has granted you. And to figure out where it has come from, we must first look at what else you are gifted. I will predict, with my knowledge of Conjuration and the history of the Daedra, that if you have the power to control other people you dream through, it is the product of a Daedric Prince. If you cannot, then it is simply a Divine giving you insight on important things happening throughout the realm."

"Wait… does that mean you've… dealt with someone that has had my ailments before?"

Flamothias fell silent. The thin line where his mouth was tightened further until Avery thought it would snap in half. "I have. Many years ago in Morrowind. He was a dear old friend to me."

"Where is he? May I speak with him?" Perhaps this person would better have an idea of how to deal with the pain.

Flamothias smiled ruefully. "Alas, he has left sweet Tamriel, as I had advised him."

"Where did he go?"

"Akavir."

The Dragon land. Avery heard horrid things about that place. Located so far east across the sea, it was home to snow-demons, serpent-men, monkey people, tiger dragons, and much more. It was said that the humans who lived there were eaten alive by the other inhabitants. He also remembered talk of Akaviri invasions on Tamriel. _Why in Oblivion would anyone want to go to Akavir?_ "So I cannot talk to him?"

Flamothias shrugged. "You can go and try to find him if you wish, but Akavir is a long ways away."

"But… you know how I could potentially take control of someone? You know how to teach someone with this illness that?"

"It took a while, I admit," Flamothias said. "But, as a young determined mage back then, I thought I could do anything I put my mind to. So I did."

"Why for him, though? Why go through all that trouble for one person?"

Flamothias smiled, this one more sinister than any of the ones Avery had seen. His spine rattled with chills. "He was a dear friend of mine, and a very important man."

"And his… ailment. Was it caused by the Divines? Or the Daedra?"

"I shall tell you the story of my friend in due time. But now is not. I am tired, and your dreams keep me awake past an ungodly hour. I must rest. We will speak in the morrow."

Flamothias scooted far away from the light, straight into a dark corner of the cell, where he slumped over and drew his wool shirt over his head. Avery settled into his bedroll, his mind alive with more questions than he had started out with.

He had not thought of how experienced - or old - Flamothias was until their last conversation. Morrowind was a cursed place now, its mainland desolate with rubble and ash. Red Mountain had spewed its red magic all over Vvardenfell, leaving bone and blood in its wake. He must have been there before everything went bad, otherwise…

A voice called out to him, one so energetic and vibrant that he had to still his whole body to be able to understand what it was saying.


End file.
